


Gravity Works in Mysterious Ways

by quackinelliot



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: FLUFF EVENTUALLY, M/M, but it'll happen, don't expect it for a while, dorky boyfriends, i just figured that i'd put it there as a fair advance warning, it gets serious later on though, like hella serious, modelling agency, modelling au, rape/non-con will be way later, waaaaaaaaay later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 14:03:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1472503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quackinelliot/pseuds/quackinelliot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when a hot-but-never-been-a-model Carlos goes to Night Vale Modelling on a dare? What will Cecil do when he sees that gorgeous hunk of man? What am I even talking about? (It's a Modelling AU, just give it a chance pls)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gravity Works in Mysterious Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Carlos is an (extremely good looking) aspiring scientist who was sent to the town of Night Vale about a year ago on a science internship. Tagging along is his younger sister Marlene, but we'll get to her in a later chapter (I promise). He's dared to go to Night Vale Modelling, but what awaits him there may not be exactly what he was expecting....
> 
> =============
> 
> THE RAPE/NON-CON WARNING IS FOR MUCH LATER IN THE STORY.
> 
> I am terrible at writing fanfiction, but this idea was too good to pass up. I just hope I can update as much as I'd like to ;;; Uhh I'm really bad at this part so I hope you enjoy? ; u ;

There are many things in this world that should not be questioned. I never believed that love and pain would be two of them, nor that they would end up being two of the most important factors in my life. To be perfectly honest, my life was going just fine without having anything exciting happen.

I was finally getting close to my monetary goal to begin attending college. Marlene had just made a best friend that I knew she could get into a meaningful relationship with, platonic or otherwise. We wouldn’t ever have to move again, not while I still had the science internship I had received. Our life was near-perfect.

That is, until Night Vale Modeling drew me in, taking my life and sanity with it.

-x-

The topic of NVM was huge in our quaint, desert town of Night Vale. It had been announced to be built about two and a half years before Marlene and I even knew that Night Vale existed. From what my friends told me, it was a mystery as to why it showed up. “No one wanted a modeling agency, there was no request for one. Sure, there are plenty of attractive people here, but I can’t think of any that wanted to even be a model,” according to one of my many neighbors (hell if I remembered their name.)

So NVM was a mystery to everyone. It came from nowhere, it stayed for no reason. But for some reason, people walked in. People got jobs. However, a few have come out after their interview and evaluation without a modeling career secured. Most, though, aren’t really seen much after they go inside. It’s a bit horrifying to think about.

They would disappear for days, weeks, even months at a time. No one would see them leave or come home, though they often heard sounds from their apartments and houses. If anyone did see them, it was only briefly and was a very rare occurrence.

However, from what I’ve seen and been told, many of them have been reappearing. But not just walking out early a couple of days, no. They come out in the same clothes they went there in, though the people themselves are disheveled and look mentally scarred. And no matter what anyone does, none of them are willing to talk about what happened in their – insert amount of time spent there – with NVM.

One person, John Peters, our only local farmer, came out after (apparently) a year and a half of barely seeing him. I never personally saw him, though his orange orchard was always maintained, so I had just assumed that he still kept it watered and taken care of. Anyways, he recently left NVM for good, and he didn’t seem happy about it. Well, not conventionally. He seemed relieved, but fearful. Apprehensive? I think that’s the word for it? I have no idea.

When we did see him, and asked him about NVM, all he could do was scream, “HIRAM MCDANIELS FOR PRESIDENT!” We could only assume that this Hiram McDaniels was a lower employee for the building of NVM that believed they should be president instead of whoever was currently in that position.

That was another thing. Not a single person knew who the president was. All we knew was what a couple of guys had told us. And the one that stuck with us, and kept us interested in what really went on at NVM was: “That man fucked like a God.”

-x-

“Carlos, c’mon bro, you promised!” someone shouted, pulling me out of my trance.

It was Nick. That’s right. He and I were eating out after our day at the Science Facility and he brought up NVM. I would never go in there, let alone make it as a model, so I have no idea why he kept pressuring me. “You promised that, if I beat your ass at Battlefield, like I always do, you have to actually go check out Night Vale Modelling, see what’s up with that place. C’mon, you can’t just go back on a Battlefield Promise!”

“Nick, I am not going in that creepy place!” I replied, a bit louder and ruder than I had originally intended. I pushed myself up from our table inside the half-full Arby’s and started to leave the restaurant, despite Nick’s begs and pleads to hear him out. I didn’t wanna go, and that was that! I wasn’t cut out for that place, and plus, the idea of the president scared me. He just sounded intimidating, judging by how everyone described him.

I looked behind me and shook my head at Nick. “There’s no way, unless there’s something in it for me,” I continued, adding a counter-offer. I wasn’t going there without some assurance that it wouldn’t be for nothing.

Clearing his throat, he threw out his offer, chasing me out of the run-down fast food joint: “If you get an actual modeling job, you have to split it with me for being right this entire time,” he added to the offer, actually piquing my interest. “But, if you come out as scared as I personally think you will, I’ll pay for your groceries for you and Marlene next week.” As he said my little sister’s name, his voice got lower, more serious. He knew how much that would mean to us, and that I just couldn’t say no to it.

After about 2 extra seconds of thinking it over, I gave my answer. “Fine. I’ll go,” I sighed. “But if I’m traumatized, you’re buying for the next two months.” He nodded and pushed me out of the Arby’s, cheering my name loudly and awkwardly, gaining the attention of anyone who wasn’t already staring. Dammit, Nick.

I gave another sigh and walked down the street towards NVM’s building, hands secured on my messenger bag that held anything that I would need to get a real job: awkward selcas, a resume, and anything I assumed I would need for a modeling career.

-x-

I walked in the front doors of the 6-story building of Night Vale Modeling and saw a completely empty lobby, save the secretary staring intently at his computer at the front. I shuffled sheepishly over to the front desk and rang the cheesy diner-like bell to try and get his attention away from whatever was so important on his computer. He jumped a bit at the sound, but looked attentively in my direction. He blinked a couple of times before putting on his clearly-rehearsed “oh shit there’s a person here” face.

“Hello, sir! May I help you?” he recited, clearly from a script he was given upon receiving his job. I nodded shyly and handed him the contents of my bag, trying to tell him what I was there for without actually telling him. He looked at it and quickly looked back at me, double-taking with his mouth gaped and eyes wide. “Damn son…” I heard him breathe, his cheeks reddening as he went behind his desk to a scanner to do something or other with my papers. I couldn’t help but flush at his reaction.

You see, most people think I’m really attractive. Like, “I’m-gonna-nail-that” attractive. I really don’t know what people see in me that makes me so handsome, and while the compliments are nice, it gets very uncomfortable very quickly. Some people around town had been telling me to submit my resume to NVM, and I hadn’t really considered it until Nick offered to pay for Marlene and I’s groceries. Then, I figured, what do I have to lose? $50 that would be nothing but extra money anyways? Yes, that would be nice, but there’s worse things that I could lose. It’s nothing if it means a chance at free groceries.

When the secretary – I saw by the name plate on his desk that his name was Earl Harlan – told me to go up and see Mr. Palmer and that I had a real potential for modeling, I gasped a little and nodded furiously at his instructions and compliment, feeling my ears heat up and my back straighten. “Go to the sixth floor, and it’s the only room up there,” he said, his voice fading into a chuckle about halfway through. I didn’t understand how an entire floor could house just one room, but I went with it.

Before I left, I saw that Mr. Harlan’s face was beet red and that he was giggling awkwardly to himself. While opening the elevator and just before I got in, I heard him pick up a phone and start talking to someone, though I have no idea who it was. Possible this “Mr. Palmer”.

After heading upstairs via said elevator – no music made it really awkward – I walked all the way down a basically-door-less hallway, aside from what was clearly Mr. Palmer’s office. Outside his office, there was another secretary, but this one – they were female by the looks of it – was either on break or always had earphones out and did homework at their desk. 

Walking by the secretary unnoticed, I knocked lightly on the door, hearing a gleeful “come in” at just the second knock. Had he been expecting me? I looked to the secretary for any hints as to if they had told him, but noticed that they still hadn’t looked up from their work. I noticed that it was Algebra. No wonder: you gotta be all kinds of concentrated to get Algebra done at a good pace.

I turned back towards the door, took in a deep breath, and opened the door and saw a grand but simple office. To the right and left of the door, I saw large and healthy Laurentii plants; strange to see them so lively inside a cooler room. Against the left wall sat drawers and drawers of who-knew-what, maybe client profiles or something of the sort. To my right, there was a mini-apartment-like area, complete with a small range atop a sufficient counter, a Murphy bed, and a recliner chair. Straight in the center and pushed back slightly towards the wall of window behind it was a beautiful, wooden editor’s desk, littered with what I believed to be important papers and documents of some sort. Behind the desk, turned away from the beautiful view just waiting to be seen, sat a peculiar man in a sleek office chair.

I could only assume that the man was Mr. Palmer, but he looked far too young to be the president of a company, appearing to be no older than 25. He had short and fluffy blonde hair, slicked over in the front to give the appearance of neat, swept-across bangs. The collar of his lavender button-up work shirt tickled at tattoos underneath that were clearly hidden by company protocol. An old, worn watch rolled around his wrist as he dug through the scatter papers, seemingly looking for something specific. Thick-framed glasses that guarded a pair of baby blue eyes sat perfectly on pale face. His skin tones varied from as pale as a ghost to… of slight, noticeable difference. I’m not gonna lie: he was extremely attractive.

He straightened up when he caught sight of me and flashed me a straight, white smile. “Oh, Carlos! I was expecting you,” he said, his voice slightly shaky. Was he nervous? “Earl called me and warned me that you’re a looker, but…. My goodness, you’re drop-dead gorgeous. You absolutely must tell me how you get your hair to be that perfect.”

I felt my face heat up at the comments. I never understood everyone’s obsession with my hair, to be perfectly honest. I had thick, slightly wavy, dark brown hair. Like, really dark. The “almost-black-but-totally-brown” kind of hair. It wasn’t special, it was very standard for my family, actually. Marlene has the same kind, so did my mother, so did my father, so did most of my family. I wasn’t really sure why everyone loved it.

He bounced giddily up out of his chair and strode over to me, the bounce still remaining in his step. “Umm, Mr. Palmer?” I asked as he approached me. He stopped and looked at me, and it was only then did I notice that we were almost the exact same height. “My hair is nothing special, and I’m not attractive. I’m actually pretty hideous, if you really saw me.” My face grew hotter, realizing that I really should have kept my mouth shut.

His face contorted into confusion, but he quickly shook that away in favor of a happier expression. “I’m sure you’re beautiful, no matter what! Let me assure you, you’ll have jobs lined up left and right with your looks,” he said matter-of-factly. He motioned to the recliner in his mini-apartment, telling me silently to take a seat. I jumped a little at the sudden demand to sit, and rushed over in a much more anxious way than I had originally intended.

Carlos, stop, I told myself. He’s just a president, it’s his job to flatter you; he needs employees. He’s only saying those things because you’re a client and he needs you for his business. He doesn’t really believe you’re beautiful, impossible. Who could?

I took a deep breath as Mr. Palmer dragged his office chair in front of me, sitting down with excitement. Could it be that he was actually excited to talk to me? No, there’s no way.

He got out a tape-recorder, what I assume to be a copy of my resume (how had he gotten one that fast?) on a clipboard, and a pen. He clicked a button on the recorder and looked intently over at me. “Well, Carlos, it’s time to begin. Let me start by properly introducing myself,” he recited, straightening his posture to look a bit more professional. The excited expression on his face, though, took away from any professional atmosphere he had attempted to create. “I’m Cecil Gershwin Palmer, president of Night Vale Modeling. Please, tell me a bit about yourself.”

And so I did.

I just wish I had been more prepared for what that interview would entail.


End file.
